A Writers Journey

Monday, September 11, 2017

This is a part fiction, part true story of one of the most horrific days in our history. All the facts surrounding that day are true --I lived it. The fictional part examines what might have gone on in the mind of one of the victims during his last minutes of life.

The Uneaten Meal

The watch hanging from Ian’s belt loop under his white chef jacket read 8:15. The morning rush was in full swing. Patrons sat in the sunlit posh restaurant—some drummed their fingers with impatience, others read the Wall Street Journal. Many seemed barely awake, sipping coffee for a caffeine jolt.

Ian had worked the kitchen all morning, his third day on the job as a Sous Chef to the Head Chef. He had survived the breakfast rush; bagels with cream cheese and lox for the rushed, Quiche Lorraine for the ones too important to punch a time card. Still, most would be heading to their various jobs, many on the 104th floor below the restaurant. The conference room, a floor below the restaurant, on the 106th floor was catering a breakfast to the Waters Financial Technology Congress, serving seventy-one guests.

Ian was preparing for the lunch entrée special; a new recipe Chef would be offering to the lunch crowd--numbering hundreds. Ian worked quickly, with dozens of cooks helping to prep the ingredients. It was a gourmet delight – an aromatic concoction of bowtie pasta swimming in a rich white cream sauce, consisting of sweet herbed butter, heavy cream, white wine and an imported parmesan cheese. Large shrimp lightly sautéed in the sauce were placed on top, sprinkled with crumbled Greek feta cheese, sweet basil and freshly ground black pepper. Parsley sprigs added décor to the plate along with a few strips of fresh grilled red pepper. Chef Mike was confident of his creative cuisine. He was not of his new Sous Chef and often hovered over him, making Ian nervous. He was glad Chef Mike would not be coming in to work until the noon rush. This entrée could not be made completely in advance and the chef wanted a few made up to insure the recipe was followed to the letter. He had a fine reputation to maintain.

As customers rose to go to their perspective jobs; many glancing out of the rows of large windows overlooking the panoramic business district of Manhattan and the East River, the dining room was set up for the lunch rush.

Ian had Chef Mike’s creation ready to be sampled as soon as he arrived for his shift. He was afraid his job depended on how well he had prepared the dish. Still, he had done his best and felt confident it would suit the perfectionist chef.

Blinding light and roaring noise shut out his world. Fire and smoke filled the entire 107thfloor, screams of panicked customers and workers alike died out quickly as they were overcome by suffocation and burns. The delectible shrimp and bowtie pasta entrée was destroyed along with most of the kitchen. Neither Ian nor Chef Mike would ever know if it met the chef’s high standards. His new recipe would go uneaten, along with all the meals scheduled for that luncheon meal. Windows on the World, Manhattan’s noted and loved restaurant was destroyed. It was 8:55 and the 104th floor was incinerated.

People on other floors were spared the direct impact of the first passenger jet, Flight 11 that slammed into the first tower of the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001. The ones on the top floor, along with the people in the restaurant were trapped. There was no way down. Many ran up the staircases to the top 111th floor and climbed onto the rooftop hoping to be rescued. Ian ran with them. He helped the few people alive make it to the roof. Helicopters tried in vain to reach them but black billowing smoke prevented this, as well as bursts of flame. People succumbed to the heat and smoke and died. Others chose to jump off the top of the building, rather than burn to death. Ian was one of them.

As he jumped, his thoughts were of his wife and their new born baby girl. It was such a beautiful day that they had planned a picnic in Central Park when his shift ended. Before Ian reached the ground, his spirit left his body. He saw his body splatter on the street below. He watched as financial wizards, secretaries, businessmen, maintenance workers, became one in the futile effort to escape the building. He saw a second plane hit the second tower, taking more lives in an instant. This plane hit closer to the top of the second tower giving more time for people below those floors to get out. Many made it, many more did not. Ian’s spirit drifted through the first tower, watching frantic people calling on their cell phones for help—some realizing their plight cried and said goodbye to their loved ones.

911 operators, unaware of the gravity of the situation, gave wrong advice to many who called--advising them to remain inside until help came. Help, that was unable to reach most of them. Most of the ones who survived had ignored that advice and hurried to escape the building.

New York City responded at once. Ian watched as police, search and rescue squads, and fire trucks rushed to the scene. Ambulances raced to help those who survived. People began the long trek down dark stairways, coughing and choking on thick black smoke; often meeting police and firemen on their way up the building. The heat was unbearable. Ian felt anquished, knowing that so many would never make it back down. He saw many like him who could walk through the ruins, already dead.

The second tower imploded almost without warning at 10:05 A.M., through time held no meaning for Ian. Thousands of lives were crushed into rubble. The ambulances and hospitals set up triages for the injured. Most beds lay empty, as few made it out of the towers alive. Except for the ones lucky enough to have escaped before the first tower imploded at 10:30, there were few patients to help. Ian observed the nearly 3000 souls wandering lost throughout the ruins. Many did not yet realize that they were dead.

The shock waves of horror extended past Manhattan, its neighboring boroughs, rippled across the country, impacted the world. America had been attacked by cowardly terrorists on her own soil. New York City wept, Mayor Guiliani wept, the free world wept. And Ian wept.

The Chef’s new entrée in the Windows on the World would go uneaten, never sampled for its flavor. There would be many uneaten meals that day and for many days to follow. Terror, death and inconceivable destruction had taken away the appetite of the City, the nation—most of the world. It left a bitter taste in the mouths of all those who lost loved ones and those who grieved with them.

Ian glanced through the rubble and saw his chef uniform buried beneath the debris. It held a quickly scribbled note of love to his wife and newly born baby. He hoped it would be found and given to her. He also hoped that she would tell his baby girl about her father—so that his memory would live on, even if he could not. Ian sensed that this most infamous day would never be forgotten. He wished for new twin towers to be erected for all the lost lives destroyed this day, taken so brutally. And maybe a new restaurant and new offices restored—not to replace those lost but to honor them. Perhaps there would be a new chef with an untried recipe that would be eaten and enjoyed. If that day arrived, it would signify healing in a shocked and saddened nation—a new beginning.

Ian turned to see a horde of people of all ages and occupations gathering together. He looked up and a bright, warm light spread across the sky. He saw arms outstretched to embrace those who walked toward the brightness. He joined them.

Seventy-three employees in the restaurant died that day, all seventy-one in the conference room and an unknown number of patrons. Remnants from the Windows on the World restaurant rubble included: a dinner spoon, soup bowl, salad plate, dessert plate and coffee cup. Also found was a table lamp, champagne flute, bottle of champagne, grill scraper—and a chef’s uniform.

Author’s note: The terrorists had counted on taking out from 30,000 to 50,000 lives that earth shattering morning. Their timing was a little off and many people had not yet entered the building. However, due to the toxins in the debris, such as mercury and asbestos, many of those who spent days, weeks and even years searching Ground Zero for body parts are now dying a slow and agonizing death due to cancers of the throat, lung and esophagus. Many more will die in the ensuing years—among them, families and small children whose homes were filled with this debris; which they were told to clean up themselves. The repercussions of disease from toxins spread to Staten Island, when they helicoptered the remains to the Staten Island dump. The dump blew the toxins across the seventeen-mile- long Island and many are dying of quickly striking and fatal cancers. It is conceivable that the total count of those lost on 911 will reach 30,000 to 50,000 after all. Damn the terrorists

Tuesday, April 18, 2017

Welcome again friends and newcomers to A Writer's Journey at Staten Island, NY!! Today's post will give you an even better understanding of my two books.

Today, until midnight, there will be time to enter the contest by leaving a comment. Two winners, randomly selected, will win either . . . And the Whippoorwill Sang or The Cat Who Wanted a Dog. For Those already having these books, I will substitute another ebook I think you will like. This contest for Rave Review Book Club runs through April ending with a super grand prize. Go to the site and browse other author's as well.

I hope you will enjoy this interview of Noelle by Nancy Jardine. I have written the answers to Nancy's questions based upon things that Noelle said while alive. Her ending statements are what I believe she would have said and felt, using author intrusion and also things she said to her nieces and nephews after passing on from this realm.

How does a mother explain love?

How does a mother let her child go?

A child so beautiful, funny and bright

Who breathes life into every moment,

Draws bird pictures

Does cartwheels in autumn leaves

Sings down country lanes

There is no explanation

...And The Whippoorwill Sang Interview By Nancy Jardine

On Welcome Wednesday I have opened my blog
to many different sorts of writing. Sometimes it has been my own, sometimes
guest posts from an author, and at other times it has been an author
interview.

Today, I have a friend visiting from the US who has brought along a character
from her memoir...And The Whippoorwill Sang. So, in a sense, it's a
character interview. But it is a poignantly different type of
investigation.

Micki Peluso's account is a recreation of her own experience, the
loss of a young teenage daughter a main theme of the writing. It demonstrates
how Micki, and her family, have dealt with such sad bereavement.

Doing a character interview can be a fun thing to do that's, often, only vaguely
challenging. When the character is from a story that happened in real life, and
died in tragic circumstances, it's quite another kind of test for the author to
recreate.

I'm so pleased that Micki Peluso has
allowed us to have a little glimpse of her daughter, Noelle Marie Peluso. As
such, Noelle is not really speaking in the present; more like how her life was
many years ago before her time on earth was abruptly and shockingly ended and
how she connects to her family situation now. Think of the answers being given
for both a time in the past, and from a perspective of present
interaction.

Welcome to my part of the world, Noelle. Let's get to know you a little bit.

Can you describe yourself in only six words for my
readers, please, Noelle?

I am 14 and in love.

That is quite a description and you seem to be having a
fun time!Where are you currently living?

I live in Williamsport, Pennsylvania in this great haunted
100-year-old farmhouse with my parents, five brothers and sisters and ghosts. I
love it here, except for the bats that single me out.

Had you been there all your life?

No, it seems all my life we just keep moving. I even wrote a
poem about it. Each time a new baby arrives we must move to a bigger house, and
then mom insisted we leave our house and friends in Long Island, New York and
move to Las Vegas, Nevada because of the drug situation. My little sister,
Nicole called it ‘Lost Vegas,’ but me and Kelly, my sister and best friend,
hated it there. My oldest sister, Kimber, was seventeen and loved it. Mike,
sixteen and Dante, fifteen liked to explore the desert and their high school
was cool. My school was in a trailer and I hated it. We were younger then:
Nicole only four, me eight, Kelly, eleven. Mom kinda liked Las Vegas because
her best friend lived there, but daddy, like me, also hated it because he
couldn't find a high paying job like in New York.

How do you mainly spend your days just now?

Well, we all have chores but I usually skip out on mine. I’m
the clown of the family, tricking my brothers and sisters to do my jobs while I
keep them laughing at my TV imitations. I do a great Groucho Marx. Kelly got me a job with her, babysitting for a
bunch of kids. Course I got Kelly to do the work while I played with the little
toddlers and babies. I earned money to buy my new school clothes. Mom sews a
lot of our clothes and Kim, Kelly, and I love them, but Nicole wants ‘store
bought’ clothes. Mom says someone must've switched babies at birth. Nicole
agrees with her.

You're only barely into your teens but what career path
do you think would be a good one to follow?

At 14 there's not much else besides babysitting to do to
make money, but I want to be a lawyer when I grow up and have six kids just
like my mother. She's the best mom a girl could have and I want to be just like
her. She never got to go to college but I will – I have great dreams for my
life especially since I fell in love with Chuck. I feel he's my soul mate.

What's your favorite reading material?

I love to go to the park down the country road from our
house and read Harlequin romance books. Sometimes I meet Chuck there and we
talk. He kissed me for the first time the other day and it was heaven! We know
we’re meant for each other.

Young love, indeed! That sounds very mature in some ways,
quite sure and definite a statement, and yet at 14 there's still a lot to learn
about relationships with boys. If you had to change things. What would you do
first?

Well, I had a rough time when we first moved here and I went
to junior high school. I got depressed because the snotty girls who come from
rich families ignored me. I convinced mom I was sick a lot and missed school.
She'd make me scrambled eggs and we'd hang out together. She had a similar time
in high school and gave me good advice. When kids make fun of you, make them
laugh with you and not at you. I realized I was a bit of a comic and took her
advice. Soon I was accepted and made many good friends. I became a star
basketball player and joined the band, which helped. Mom asked me if I knew the
song ‘Long Long Ago, Far Far Away.’ We had just learned it and mom said, then
go play that trumpet far far away. Guess you know where I get my sense of
humor.

Those are very positive approaches to tackling what can
be a very nasty problem. If not Chuck, who or what else would be the love of
your life?

I love life. I enjoy each moment. Kelly thought I was nuts
one day when we bought new school clothes and then decided to go for a bike
ride. I couldn't decide what to wear so I put on layers of my entire new
clothes at once. Kelly's a little too organized and rigid and said she was
saving her clothes for a special occasion. I told her I thought a bike ride was
special enough. After all, you only live once. I love my family more than
anything, but my love for Chuck is new and different and I’ve never been so
happy.

What is your favorite way to travel?

Certainly not traveling in our station wagon, all six of us
and our huge St. Bernard, Luna, who upchucks, making everybody else throw up
except Dante. Dad gets furious, but mom brings bags for us. Course Luna didn't
know how to use them. Mom always looked out the window so dad wouldn't see her
grin. But traveling out West in a dilapidated camper built for four was so
fun-- at least for me and my brothers. Kelly kept asking if we'd left the
country and Nicole cried, wanting to go home. Kim loved it, until we forgot her
and left her in the desert at a gas station. Mike laughed but Kim looked shook
up even as she claimed she knew we’d come back for her. When I was 12, Grandma
took Kelly and me by bus to Canada to visit a Catholic shrine and that was a
blast. Lucky for me, Grandma and Kelly had a sense of humor, as well as a lot
of shock over my shenanigans.

What is your biggest goal?

My goals were violently taken away from me on August 23,
1981. My friend and I were walking to the park to hear a concert. I begged mom
to let me go and paid her a dollar to do the dishes for me. She laughed and
finally gave in. The last words I said to her as I ran out the front door, was,
‘Bye Mom.’ I was telling my friend as we walked that I hoped Chuck would be
there. That's all I remember. The next 10 days I was between two worlds. I
could not move and I heard the doctors say I wouldn’t live. Mom and my family
were with me day and night and mom told me I was in an accident but would be
all right. I fought to live for my mom and dad and family and began
communicating by blinking my eyes for yes and no. I heard the doctors try to
convince my parents take me off life support, but they refused. I'd always said
if I was paralyzed I would not want to live, but I couldn't let my family down.

On one visit, after seeing tears running down my cheeks, mom
whispered in my ear that it was okay if I wanted to go Home and followed the
light to Heaven's realm. I felt free at last . . . And soon after I left my
body. I know now my goals were met, according to God's will, in my short life.
Now my goal is to remain close to my family, appearing to those, especially my
10 nieces and nephews, who can see, hear or sense my presence. I told the
little ones who could see and hear me the clearest that mom would survive her
heart attacks. And she did. Now my goal is to wait for my loved ones to come
home to me. Time doesn't exist here as it does on Earth. Years are but a second
and then we’ll all be together again. And so I wait.

True story of a cat who wants his own little dog but is in for a big surprise Hi boys and girls, I'm Toby, a handsome cat if I say so myself. I do whatever I want but Grandma and Grandpa think they own me! My favorite thing is to take Grandma's shiny jewelry and hide it. Grandpa is still looking for his favorite pen. I have one friend, Casey, a wild cat who lives outside but she tells me through the screen door about the outside world. I was a happy, cool cat until---well, read what I wrote about the day Grandma invited the 'Monster' to visit. Yikes!

And Kids, please try to color in the lines when you color me. I am a bit fussy about my hair. When you read the book you'll find out why!!!

Here's what I look like in real life. I'm also a doctor. Cat's purring causes sound waves that heal us and our human and animal friends. I even make house calls. I can sense when an animal or dog is sick. Grandma things that's pretty cool but Granpa says we are both crazy.

This is a children’s book based on a true story about a cat named Toby. What is unique about this book is you can color in it, too--so it is worth buying in print form just for that. I got this to read to my grandchildren ages ranging from: eight to one and a half years old. I sat down individually with each of them starting with my six-year-old granddaughter, who is just starting to read and loves cats and dogs. This was the perfect story for her, plus the bonus she could color in it after! She had the crayons out the minute we finished reading. Everyone else got to enjoy her coloring, including her eight-year-old brother. He listened quietly and asked a lot of questions about the animals. He was very engaged in the tale of Toby. Although, he passed on the coloring portion he liked the story. The youngest, at one in a half, could not sit through the story, but was more than ready to color and loved the pictures of the cat and dog. She is usually being told not to color in books, so a nice addition for her! What an endearing story, that we could all relate to no matter what our age! I will be reading this many times to my grand kids, and it will be a little different each time as the coloring continues.

After reading Micki Peluso's memoir and several of her short stories, I could hardly wait for her first children's book to arrive in my mail box. The day it arrived I was not disappointed. Peluso's unique sense of humor shines through in this delightfully written and illustrated coloring book for kids. I highly recommend it for children of all ages. Whether a read-aloud or read-along, the whole family is sure to smile. And lessons on friendship will long be remembered. My grandson loves The Cat Who Wanted a Dog and so does this still-laughing-out-loud grandma. ~ Bette A. Stevens, Maine author of award-winning picture book Amazing Matilda (Children's Literature): The Tale of A Monarch Butterfly and other inspirational books for children and adults.

Saturday, April 8, 2017

Hello my friends and newcomers!! Welcome to Rave Review Book Club's BOOK &amp; BLOG PARTY at A Writer's Journey, Staten Island, New York. Enter by leaving a comment to win daily prizes and one Grand prize. Today I am giving away one (1) ebook called: . . . And the Whippoorwill Sang and one (1) ebook of The Cat Who Wanted a Dog. If you already have these books, I will subsititute another ebook that I think you will like.

AND THE WHIPPOORWILL SANG, a 300 page memoir, opens
with eloping teenagers, Micki and Butch, in a bizarre double wedding ceremony
with Micki’s mother. The couple share comical escapades, spanning
decades. A terrible accident occurs in a placid valley nestled in the
SusquehannaMountains. Micki narrates happier
days while confronting an uncertain future. One of her six children
is fighting for life in the hospital. The family embarks upon its
unbearable journey to the other side of sorrow . . .

And so in the throes of grief, a writing career was
born.

A Whippoorwill looking in the window

LEGACY OF LOVE by Micki Peluso

I stood in the small church, supported by the prayers of loved ones, mantled with the soulful whine of the church organ playing its dirge of death. I felt a separation of mind and body. Someone was standing here, but it couldn’t be me. The smell of incense permeated my senses, overwhelming with its cloying scent. Next to me, covered with a shroud, stood the casket of my child. I would not look at it, could not.

The words of the priest droned on and on, completing the Mass, and the ceremony finally drew to a close, but I was lost in a sea of unrelated thought. I heard nothing; I felt nothing, except a desire to be done with this, to be free to face my grief alone. We walked, my family and I, down the endless aisle of concerned, tear streaked faces, united in a melange of emotion, following the one who would never again walk among us. Then out into the overcast day, whose sun had the dignity not to shine, we entered the limousines and headed for the cemetery to say our final goodbye. The ride to the cemetery wastortuously slow. We climbed the long winding mountain road to the top, surrounded by grotesquely beautiful tombstones, the only proof of former lives.

Surely this was just a dream. I would awaken soon and rebuke the nightmare that enveloped my senses, sighing with relief. Oh God, please let this be a dream. But no, the grass was too lushly green. Tear shaped droplets of rain hung precariously from misted, succulent leaves. The dark gray clouds swirling in anger as the sun tried vainly to push them aside in a futile effort to dominate the day, were too real. Yes, this was actually happening.

There were over a hundred people standing behind me; their silence bearing down upon me like the crush of ocean waves. I fought the compulsion to slide into oblivion and let this travesty proceed without me.

There was a small crucifix on top of the darkly ominous box which was now my daughter’s residence. I tried to focus on that one object in an effort to retain my sanity. The voice of the priest, overflowing with empathy, broke the silence with, I was told later, a moving and beautiful eulogy. His words rained down over me, covering me with compassionate warmth, but I comprehended no meaning. Closing my mind to everything around me, the box and I stood alone together in the macabre stillness of a lonely mountain top, whose residents, except for birds and trees, were all stone cold and unfeeling.

There was no life here, not even serenity, just the vacuous emptiness of space and time, devoid of animation. What a cruel, unlikely place to leave one who was so vivacious, so seething with spirit, so very much alive. I had to leave this place. My daughter was not here.

After the funeral, our family unit was forever altered. Yet life went on and swept us along; children had to be fed and cared for, careers had to be maintained.

The ten-day wait in the Intensive Care Unit was over. Family, neighbors and friends moved on with their own lives and we were forced to continue ours, in spite of the gaping hole left by the absence of Noelle. There would be no more hovering by her bedside, praying for the miracle that would heal her severed spinal cord; broken by the thoughtless drunk driver who struck her down in broad daylight miracle that was not meant to be. Noelle’s fourteen years of life were over and her two brothers, three sisters, her father and I had to somehow face the future without the child who had lit up our lives and had given us constant pleasure.

The other children reacted in different ways. One became bulimic and suicidal, another, anxious and panic stricken. Yet another raced his car at high speeds, defying death to take him too, while his brother became withdrawn, depressed and barely spoke. Our oldest child, at twenty one, left home to deal with her grief away from us; we caused her too much pain.

Two years later, our oldest daughter had married and was bearing her firstborn child. She had a long and life threatening labor and did not, nor did the rest of us, notice that when she finally brought her son into the world–it was on the day that Noelle died. Upon realizing this, she was horrified and sobbed as she lay in recovery. The rest of us were equally appalled and awestruck by what by what we perceived to be one of life’s cruel ironies.

And then the miracle happened. During the next few years the tragic day that claimed the life of Noelle became, instead, the birthday of a beautiful little boy. Noelle had somehow sent us the gift of healing. Today, as we continue to celebrate that day, our grief is temporarily put aside, and the memories of Noelle have become sweet, bittersweet, yet softened by the little boy born on the date she died. Ian was two years old when he told his mother, Kim, that “when I grow up and become Noelle, the truck will miss me.

At 14 years old, Ian traveled with his grandmother to Rome and in a narrow alley, a car whizzed by and the rear-view mirror (like the one that severed Noelle’s spinal cord) missed him by inches. Other grandchildren seemed obsessed with Noelle as well, even though we did not speak of her often. Nicole’s two year old son, Nicholas told his mother that Noelle was in the room with them. His mother thought he meant her picture but he insisted he could see her. It was her birthday. Kelly’s son, Brandon pointed at the ceiling and babbled until he could talk and then reported seeing Noelle everywhere, once in the front seat of the car next to his mother. He claimed that Noelle had told him not to play in the street with the big boys. He also claimed that he could not see Noelle as often around Christmas because the sky was filled with angels. There were many instances like this. As I lay dying from back to back heart attacks, Noelle came to her father, smiled and gave him the thumbs up—I lived. These visits we believe were Noelle’s way of assuring us that her soul was alive and well, her way of easing our grief–her legacy of love.

Based on a true story, this tale is narrated by Toby, a cat who lives with Grandma and Grampa and has never met a dog. His life changes when a huge golden retriever, comes to visit. Rocky is a lovable dog and tries to make friends with Toby, who is both afraid of him and disgusted with his doggy drool. They finally become friends and then Rocky's visit is over. Toby is so sad that Grandma and Grampa take him to the doctor who suggests that the poor cat seems lonely. Toby gets an amazing present for Christmas with a big red bow and drooling nose sticking through the wrapped box. His life after that is never the same as his heart swells with happiness. But Toby is in for a big surprise!

Wednesday, March 1, 2017

“Let this be written for a future generation that a people
not yet created may praise the Lord.”

-----Psalm 102.18 NIV

And so begins a most incredible devotional handbook for
mothers going through pregnancy; especially for the first time. Fathers, too,
will enjoy this journal of a sort as both parents read the daily passages,
until their baby, who listens all those months, enters the world, already
knowing love of God and parents.

Every woman faces pregnancy with multiple
emotions—happiness, love, trepidation and fear of the unknown. Author of
children’s books and poems, Deirdre Tolhurst writes ‘a labor of love’, pun
intended, and structures it with interactive ‘read aloud’ passages and messages
to the child growing in the womb, adding prayers and blank lines for the
parents to add their own thoughts. The pregnancy becomes shared by mother,
father and child(children), forming a deep lifelong bond.

This talented writer, speaker and devotional blogger has
written one of the most beautiful books that I’ve read. Initially written for
her own grandchild, the emotions evoked through conversations with the baby and
God bring smiles and tears to the reader—often at the same time.

Deidre skillfully adds practical information on exactly what
the mother is experiencing throughout the different trimesters of her journey
into motherhood. She also includes schedules of the baby’s progress from
conception to birth, sometimes things that doctors are often too busy to
relate, yet are of so much comfort to the new parents.

There is nothing more beautiful than bringing a new soul
into the world. As parents pour out their love aloud each day for both their
child and God, who is love, it makes having a baby as much a spiritual occurrence
as a physical one. This lovely book is written as a gift for all parents and
children, and is a deeply emotional experience; which helps as the family continues
to grow with God as their mainstay in life. “Dear Child of Mine,” is truly an
heirloom for the unborn child and will be a lifelong treasure to all who
undergo the God-given miracle of childbirth.

Thursday, February 23, 2017

Micki, this is for you, my friend. I finished your incredible book and posted this review on Amazon.com and Goodreads. Please let me know if there is any other location where I should list it. I am truly touched and awed by your story.

Rarely does one encounter a biography which is so powerfully poignant that it is life changing. The spears and arrows of familiarity in Micki Peluso’s story strike deeply into the heart of my own life and I can identify with so many of the hilarious, tragic, frightening, and heartwarming moments. My heart is so full. I struggle to find the words to capture the full range of my emotions.

Having grown up in the northeastern United States, I felt as though Micki’s story were a little of my own. Micki and Butch married quite young, in a unique double ceremony with Micki’s mother. From the first, their lives were filled with challenges. As quite frequently occurs, the babies began coming before there was enough money, before the young couple even had the chance to realize what marriage was all about.

Over the years, the young family encountered multiple challenges. Butch’s loyalty to his employers often warred with the needs of his family. Micki was sometimes left to be both mother and father to a growing number of young children, battling insects and poor housing, the instructions from well-meaning family members, sick animals, the elements, and patched together vehicles. Despite all of this, the family remained close and hopeful.

The Pelusos sought the panacea of “Lost Vegas”, but the glitter of the west unfortunately did not result in a gold mine of prosperity. Harkening back to the more familiar mountains of Pennsylvania, the family found anchor in Williamsport, in a huge house capable of holding their large brood. What they didn’t realize was that the old homestead was haunted! Strange sightings of misty images undressing and getting ready for bed, shadows which crossed the room, and potatoes bumping down the basement stairs made for an interesting life style.

Overshadowing this story is the counterpoint, the tragic motor vehicle accident which has stricken fourteen-year-old Noelle. The family is left with a terrible choice: allow their daughter to linger in a horrible state, kept alive by machines and responding only with her eyes, or to disconnect life support. No parent should have to make such a terrible decision. Even after her passing, the vibrant Noelle continued to make her presence known, by bringing new life into the world on the date of her passing, by speaking to the family members in dozens of marvelous ways throughout the years.

Indian legend claims that the whippoorwill’s song is a death omen. Indeed, anyone who has heard its mournful cry as night steals over the land will own up to the sense of doom it engenders. And yet, in the farming community, the whippoorwill’s song is a wake up call from the gloomy, often frigid winter days. For now, it is safe to plant, to begin anew, time to embrace life in all of its many facets.

This, I believe, is Micki Peluso’s message. This is a story not of tragedy, but of the power of men and women to rise from the ashes of tragedy and meet life head on. We are, indeed, at our best when things are the worst. If Noelle were here today, she would want us to dance, to turn cartwheels in the fragrant autumn leaves, to love while we may, to grasp hands to pull us from the doldrums and rise, heads high, toward the brilliant sun.

Comments

Linda HumphreyAnn B. Keller. I love Micki so much as a sister. I love this book she wrote. I like to ask you if it would be ok with you if I could share this on my face book. I see there is no where to share. My computer messes up at times and won't let me copy & pa...See More

Susan Scrak CharanMicki Peluso is my Aunt and Noelle was my cousin. I thank you for this beautiful review. I agree that we do rise and we can get through anything. I wish though my cousin were still hear and that my aunt and cousins never had to know this terrible pain. :-(

Micki PelusoAnn, thank you for this most beautifully written memoir . You brought tears to my own eyes. I hope you can remember the good times in the book as well as the sad. Noelle would have wanted that. Again, I shall treasure this review forever. Micki Peluso

Micki Peluso

I began writing in my 40's as a catharsis to heal the wounds of the death of my 14 year old daughter by a DWI. My first short story concerning this was published in 'Victimology; an International Journal', followed by several related poems. Inspired to continue writing, I became a freelance journalist for my daily newspaper and staff writer for my bi-weekly award winning newspaper. About a dozen multi-genre fictional stories and non-fiction slice of life stories are published in award winning anthologies such as 'The Speed of Dark', 'Tales2Inspire', 'Creature Features,' and 'Women's Memoirs.' My first book, a memoir about my daughter's death.
. . . AND THE WHIPPOORWILL SANG, won the Silver Award for 'Books that Build Character', 3rd place memoir prize in 'Predators and Editors.' and !st place award in 'People's Choice.' This book is a funny, poignant celebration of her life rather than a eulogy of her death, likened by some reviewers to "To Kill a Mockingbird', and to others,"Cheaper by the Dozen'. 'The Cat Who Wanted a Dog' is my first children's book, and 'Don't Pluck the Duck,' a collection of short fiction and slice of life stories is about to be published in 2017.